


now how i long how i long to grow old

by awildthing



Series: Exit Wounds [2]
Category: Being Human, Being Human (UK)
Genre: Alex is snarky, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Hal does his self-loathing thing, Multi, Non-Linear Narrative, Romance, Tom is adorable and sweet, and also remarkably astute, in his own Tom way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 04:23:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awildthing/pseuds/awildthing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The days he liked best were the days when he forgot everything except for them, and the mantelshelf that was growing dusty with disuse, and even the paper wolf because it reminded him of the sacrifices and the deaths and the loves and the futures but also the pasts.</p><p>The Trinity tries to find its way after the end (beginning) of the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	now how i long how i long to grow old

I

It had been Tom's idea to utilize the mantelshelf as a shrine. Tom had known all of them personally and had tears in his eyes when he came down from the attic holding a plethora of old memories – a sonogram, some chipped mugs (his old heart twisted because the pain of losing Annie was still too sharp), a star of David. And out of his pocket Tom had pulled one of McNair's carvings and with shaking fingers had shoved it up there, too.

The mantelshelf was getting horribly dusty, what with all the clutter on it now – when he was alone one day he put up the note with Alex's name and number and hoped she and Tom wouldn't comment on it. Now he desperately wanted to take everything down and give it a good clean. But Tom would be upset and Alex would scratch the back of her head and say nothing but secretly side with Tom. So he tried not to think about the dirt.

But there were those days when as he walked past he stopped to look at the little rememberings, the sacred mementos of past lives and past people. And he didn't believe in monotheistic religion or even polytheistic religion because they suggested that there were gods… and he knew that there were only evils in the world, no gods, because if there were then why was there a paper wolf on the shelf?

He paid his respects in thoughts and moved on.

(Because what else was there to do?)

II

He could easily recall every single livid moment of his life. He could organize five hundred years' worth of memories into categories:

before

after

everything in-between

He could remember all the women and all the men and all the children and all the lonely people who begged and pleaded and cried and oh, God –

They always said that.

Oh, God!

Well, God never seemed to be listening, did he?

So he would chuckle darkly and grin and watch as the hope fled from their eyes and he would trace the skin of their necks and guide his teeth through the soft flesh.

There was always that resistance, at first. Before teeth pierced skin and blood ran hot and wet and fast and dark.

There was always that resistance, at first. A little bit like the human spirit. They would fight and struggle and claw at his arms and face.

But then they would stop.

It would take them twenty-two seconds to give in.

He'd had five hundred years to discover this.

III

Sometimes he would watch her as she moved from couch to bar to counter to table to couch. Sans her big, clunky boots she had a sort of awkward gait that made her seem as if she were not familiar with her height and the length of her limbs. Her posture was often horrendous, how did she slouch like that, and she always walked around the house barefoot. However, he couldn't help but notice that her slender, womanly figure was a perfect juxtaposition against the boyish angle of her hair and he dearly hoped she didn't catch him in the act of staring because he seemed to be doing a lot of that lately.

To be honest he'd done his fair share of staring even before her death…

But now everything was different but still somehow the same; because so much had changed but they were now back to acting like nervous moths fluttering around the light but never engaging.

Shit. His similes needed work.

Alex had told him that she needed time to adjust. Time to set her affairs in order, time to come to terms with whatever the hell her life had become.

If he'd known, then, that time stretched out on the horizon in flat increments and time tried to convince him that minutes were actually hours and days were actually weeks, if he'd known, then, that his want for her was so deep it made him physically ache from the crown of his skull to the soles of his feet…

Well, if he'd known, he probably would have swept her off her feet ages ago.

IV

Perhaps some details of his past life, some dredges of the old instincts, had remained in him as he passed from supernatural to human, because the day Allison drove up with some cardboard boxes in the trunk of her car he could vaguely smell dog, but it was more of a faded smell, like the backseat of a car in the sunlight. It was as if he could smell the unnatural residue accompanying her.

If Tom smelled it too, he never said. Tom's smile was so wide it threatened to split his face apart and, watching the two from the safety of the kitchen, his veins swelled with affection for the younger man. Alex put a hand on his shoulder and he swore that she felt it, too.

They spent the evening moving Allison in to her new room, and he brought down the old gramophone from the attic and put on Cole Porter, and nobody complained that his taste in music was outdated. He organized Allison's books the way she liked: alphabetically by publishing house, then by first letter of the author's surname.

Tom was in a fine mood that night and even tried his first sip of wine.

(He spat it back out when their backs were turned.)

V

In the days following the bustle of Allison's arrival, Alex noted that Tom hardly ever surfaced from his room anymore.

"Yes, and?" he asked, fixing a cup of tea at the counter. Alex leaned against the sink beside him.

"Well, dearie," she smirked, and his hand jerked with the sugar and he spilled too much in his tea, because he could imagine her calling him that un-ironically one day, one day when they were very old together, "isn't Allison sharing young Tom's room? You haven't seen her around much either, have you?"

This time his hand jerked with the milk and bugger, his tea was ruined.

"I haven't," he provided delicately, washing his mug in the sink. "I am sure they are – they are simply getting reacquainted with one another."

Alex smirked again and snorted and he realized what he'd said.

"Oh, bloody hell." So he threw his hands up in the air and stalked out of the room.

He could still hear the ghost of Alex's giggles in the kitchen behind him.

VI

The year was 1928 and London was sparkling.

He stood in the Ritz's best suite surrounded by the exsanguinated corpses of –

Well, shit. He didn't know who they were.

He wiped the blood from his moustache and smeared it on somebody's torn vest.

He needed a drink.

Down in the Ritz Club, at the bar, he was almost immediately accosted by two blondes wearing matching glittering gowns and matching glittering grins.

The monster in him growled with pleasure.

"Hiya, doll, can I buy you a drink?" the first one asked, leaning forward and baring her – assets.

"Only if you buy yourself one, too," he replied, eyeing her and the other woman with an insatiable hunger. He could smell, underneath the rancid perfume coating their necks, the fast-moving river of blood pouring through their veins. He could hear, underneath their sequined dresses, the excited beatbeatbeat of their hearts as they pumped. He was this close to tasting it, this close to having the coppery wetness on his tongue and down his throat and warming up his insides – Christ, he had only fed twenty minutes ago, and he had almost forgotten how it tasted, its texture, its consistency. He was no longer sated. There was always more to be had.

He realized he had been staring a fracture of a second too long, and their grins were now pasted on their faces.

"Ladies," he said smoothly, lacing his fingers behind his back, "cards on the table, let's say we forget the drinks and go on up to my room. It's a helluva lot less crowded, you know, and there's plenty of champagne to be had."

In the corner, the band swung up a fast jazz tune. The atmosphere in the room suddenly transformed, and there was a sense of urgency and of insistence that had not been present before.

He heard their hearts jump and the urge grew.

"Why, that's ever so kind of you," the second one trilled, in a voice that grated at his nerves (she'd be the first to go), "and, cards on the table, I find that alcohol magnificently lowers inhibitors. Fortunately for me, I've had quite a lot of alcohol tonight." She daringly downed the vestiges in her champagne flute and set it delicately on the bar.

The other one said nothing but smiled more widely.

So, he gestured for them to follow him and he led the way out of the basement casino.

They strolled along the brightly lit corridor, his arms loosely around their waists, and they simpered and laughed and sang verses of popular songs played in the clubs. He was getting hungry now – his stomach clenched and his nerves were on edge and his fingers tightened and his toes curled.

The light glinted off his fangs and they faltered briefly –

But then they continued to sing gaily and the moment was lost.

How amusing, how endearing, that humans simply refused to acknowledge the supernatural, that they would prefer to be blind to the machinations of the midnight world, the underground microcosm of society, and pass off odd phenomena as quirks of nature.

He found that if he pressed the pads of his fingers deep enough into the flesh of their hips, he could feel the current of blood moving past.

No. No. It was too soon. He wanted to have some fun first.

They reached the suite and he retracted his hands from their bodies. He was gratified to notice that they pouted slightly as he drew away from them.

"I'll only be a minute," he promised, clenching the doorknob in his fist, "I'd like to make it presentable for you."

He swung the door open as closely to the frame as possible and turned quickly to survey the room.

Entirely devoid of bodies. Not a bloodstain in sight.

Perfect.

He had to hand it to Fergus; that man moved quickly.

In the gilded mirror, he tousled his hair, straightened his vest, and shook out his best charming smile.

"Come in," he swung the door open and invited them inside, and his monster growled at the marvelled expressions on their faces.

He slid a Satchmo record onto the gramophone and the two girls squealed.

"Wherever did you come by that record?"

"I lived in Chicago for some time," he replied, unbuttoning his coat. "I know Louis personally. He gave it to me as a gift." He watched as the blondes exchanged astonished glances and smirked, and sauntered over to them.

The first one toed off her shoes and ran her hands down her neck.

"Well, now," she purred, "I haven't the faintest notion why, but I seem to be feeling rather hot in this dress. Would you help me out of it?" she spun slowly, baring the dip of her spine in the low-backed flapper smock.

"It would be my pleasure," he intoned, his voice low and gravelly. He watched her tremble as he slowly pulled down the zip of her dress.

There was a dare in the curve of her spine, in the way her toes curled into the lush carpet, in the tilt of her head as the golden shingles of her hair caught the light just so –

Glass crunched beneath his boot as he surveyed the room. He flicked what might have been part of a trachea from his dinner jacket. Underneath, his shirt was stained red.

It was incredible how much he had to pay for dry cleaning these days.

He slid his tongue over his teeth and retracted the fangs. There was no more blood left in either of the girls – they were empty shells, now, one draped head-first over the balcony, one splayed across the bed.

There was a sharp knock on the door.

"Room service!" it was Fergus. "Bloody shit, man, you didn't leave any for me?" Fergus bent to run his fingers down the exposed breasts of the first one. "Nice job. I think I can see her spine."

"Get this cleaned up, would you?" he licked his still-bloody fingers. "I want to be out by the morning. Big plans in France; you know how it is."

Fergus straightened. "Come on, Harry, stay awhile! It's the fucking Ritz! Ten quid says you haven't even made it down to the casino."

He rolled his eyes and went to remove the record from the gramophone. "Actually that was where I met these two lovely ladies." Fergus whistled.

"You couldn't have recruited them?" he said wistfully, fisting the yellow hair of the first one to observe what was left of the face. "Looks like mighty good – uh – bone structure. Yeah." Fergus caught his gaze. "Oh, piss off."

"What can I say?" he adjusted the cufflinks on his jacket. "I was hungry."

He awoke screaming and gasping air into dead lungs.

There was the sound of heavy footfalls and the flick of the hall light being turned on.

His door swung open. "Hal! What happened?" Tom tumbled in and his hand drifted behind to his back pocket on instinct, reaching for a stake that hadn't been present for months.

"Nightmare," he replied, gathering the bedcovers to his chest and shivering. Alex appeared in the doorway with hair mussed and eyelids heavy. This must have been the first night she'd been able to sleep without dreaming, and he felt instantly guilty.

"You okay?" she yawned, and shook back the cuffs of her sweater – she'd bought it three sizes too large on purpose, something he marvelled at – and scratched her head.

"He had a nightmare," Tom filled in helpfully, throwing himself ungracefully onto the sofa.

"What about?" she joined Tom in interest.

"Nothing that concerns you," he snapped, too quickly and with too much bite. Alex recoiled. "Sorry. I'm just on edge. It was… a past experience – unpleasant to relive, and something I wouldn't wish you to hear."

Tom wrinkled his nose. "What, was it torture or something?"

"I was not the recipient," he hedged carefully, trying not to disclose anything. "Really, I'm fine. It'll pass."

"Hal, you're bloody shaking," Alex pointed out, drawing her knees to her chest. God, she looked lovely with the moonlight reflecting off her cheekbones. "You don't seem fine to me."

"What do you suppose I do?" he cried.

Tom pushed himself off the couch and patted his shoulder. "When you're ready, you can tell us."

He exhaled sharply and watched Tom stumble blearily back to his own room. Alex, however, stayed put.

"Are you killing someone?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"In the nightmare," she clarified impatiently, wandering over to sit beside him (her legs were bare and slender and long), "Are you killing someone?"

He stared at the floor and half-heartedly wished it would swallow him up. "I – yes." There was no point in lying. Alex was incredibly astute.

"Oh," she swallowed thickly. And traced her finger along the seam of the bedcovers. "Erm – how many?"

He swallowed. His throat was dry. It felt like sandpaper.

"More than five but less than twelve," he whispered. Fucking hell, he couldn't even remember their names. He hadn't bothered to learn them before he stopped their hearts and ripped open their jugulars. Alex gathered the sheets in her hands and clenched, hard, the skin of her hands whitening.

"When?"

"October 1928."

"Where?"

"The Ritz. Suite 88."

"And… who were they?"

A pregnant pause.

"I… don't know. I don't know."

He was overcome and that was when the tears came.

At this, she moved to gather him in her arms.

"Why are you doing this? Why are you not pushing me away, condemning me as you should be?"

She hiccupped a laugh and he realized that she was crying, too. "Because I still want to believe in you. Because… because I think about who you were then and who you are now and I do my best to imagine you as you, and not then-you and now-you. Shit, I'm not explaining this very well, am I?"

"It's okay," he said, "I get it."

She wept harder and he shifted, mirroring her earlier pose with her head on his chest now.

"I can hear your heart beating," she whispered. "Can you stay with me tonight?"

And his old tattered broken heart began to beat again.

VII

It was Christmas Day and they were lounging across the couch eating turkey with stuffing and watching the Doctor Who Christmas Special.

"Blooming hell," Alex suddenly announced, smack in the middle of the episode, "all I want to do with my life is eat food professionally and watch tele all day. And blog about it."

Tom laughed and Alex laughed and he laughed, and the house was filled with the sound of happiness, and snow drifted outside in the cold but it was okay because they were inside where it was warm. Inside where it was a good place, a safe place, an incorruptible place where a vampire, a werewolf and a ghost used to live.

What was left of them was a sticky residue in the air, a memory, but it wasn't present right now. Not now that they had found an order to the chaos, a light to contradict the dark.

He realized that he was assembling prose in his head (he hadn't done that for centuries) and decided to stop.

Easy as that.

VIII

It was Tuesday and they'd just come from the cinema. The breeze pushed along the warm air and the smell of salt drifted in from the beach. Tom was working late, taking extra shifts because Allison was at school and when Allison was at school, Tom was lost.

Alex's fingers were wound tightly around his and the first word to come to mind was blissful.

"So," she began, drawing out the 'o', and he watched her lips move, "that was a pretty shit film. Why'd you drag me all the way to see it? You very obviously hated it." But she smiled teasingly, and he knew she wasn't upset.

"I didn't hate it!" at her disbelieving glance, he deflated. "Alright, no, I didn't find it very engaging. But I thought you would enjoy it."

She smiled, gratified. "You're too good to me."

He was about to contradict her when he heard the familiar strains of a waltz wandering along on the wind. Spinning around, he located the source of the music: it was coming from what appeared to be a rather nondescript brick building down the road. The doors had been thrown open, and music and light and laughter spilled out, along with the concise, periodic taptaptap of the dancers.

"Come with me."

Grasping her hand tighter, he led her to the building and peeked inside. There was a wide open room, well lit, and seven couples twirled around each other while an elderly man pranced about from couple to couple, correcting posture and providing advice. Along opposite walls hung floor-to-ceiling mirrors which reflected the dancers and made the room seem as if it were infinite; and suddenly the small space was filled with a ballroom full of dancers, swaying and dipping and twirling and it might have been one of the most mesmerizing things he'd ever seen, if Alex hadn't been standing beside him.

The elderly man had apparently noticed them; he made his way over, bouncing on the balls of his feet, and beside him Alex stifled a laugh.

"Come in! Come dance!" the man beckoned them inside. He grinned eagerly. "Please, dance!" his English was rudimentary and basic – not a local, then.

He hesitated. "We wouldn't want to interrupt –"

"No, no interrupt! Just dance." The man had a gleam in his eye – the mischievous sort of gleam that he hadn't seen for a long while.

His mind was already made up.

Really, it had been made up when he first heard the echoes of the music.

He stepped in the room, and the dancers immediately accommodated his presence.

Alex looked to him nervously. "Hal – I'm not sure about this –"

"Lady first!" the man approached her and grasped her waist. She sunk her teeth into her lip and tried to take a step back, but the man was firm and his eyes were gentle. "Hand, please."

He met her eye over the man's head and he shot her a reassuring look.

"And… step. And step. And step. Good! You're a natural. Step. And step. No – other direction. Yes." Alex couldn't help but giggle at the dancer's earnestness, and he watched as her shoulders relaxed and the tension seeped out of her frame. She became Alex – playful and quick-witted. Sometimes she stumbled, but the old man was jolly and was tactful enough not to wince when she was looking to him.

She really was a fast learner.

Soon she was twirling and laughing and smiling so widely he thought it must be painful – she smiled as if she were unable to frown, unable to twist her mouth anywhere but upwards.

"May I cut in?" the elderly man gracefully acquiesced and went back to his students, bouncing all the while.

He pulled her close to his chest, closer than the other man had.

The atmosphere changed.

Curtains opened, lighting was cast, and they were on the stage.

It felt intimate, almost secret, and in a puff of smoke the whole room vanished and it was only them, reflected a million times in the mirrors, stepping and spinning and drawing away from each other only to be pulled close again, magnetically, lyrically. He watched her as they danced. Her eyes were on her feet and she counted under her breath. Sometimes she would dart a glance up at his face, and she would grin impishly and her tongue would poke between her teeth and God, if they were anywhere else, he would take her right now.

The room was full again and they were no longer alone.

Curtains were drawn, the lighting shut off, and the performance ended.

The song had stopped and the crowd was dispersing, but they remained twined in each other.

IX

He was drinking tea in the kitchen when Tom bounded through the doors, dressed in his hotel uniform with a wrinkled vest underneath.

"Woke up late," Tom explained and threw bread and condiments together, "Didn't have time for ironing." He paused and stared. "Where's your uniform? Hurry up!"

He shook his head and set down his tea. "It's my day off today."

Tom continued to gawk. "But you never take days off. And you don't look sick, mate."

"It's a personal matter, I wouldn't expect you to understand."

Tom's face fell and he awkwardly turned back to his sandwich.

He realized he must have said something wrong. Rinsing his mug in the sink, he shot a glance over at Tom. "Where is Allison?"

Tom sniffed. "At school." His gaze fixed determinedly on the neighbour's rhododendrons.

He pursed his lips and nodded, and left the room.

Later, Alex poked her head inside the main bath as he cleaned the shower. "Why was Tom all depressed? Did you say something Hal-ish?"

He spluttered indignantly. "That doesn't make any sense." He set down the sponge and removed the marigolds. Stepping out of the shower, he joined Alex in the hall, sitting cross-legged on the floor. "I… might have insinuated that he was ignorant."

She hit him with a dishcloth. "Arse! You know he never went to school!"

"Ow!" he raised his hands in a gesture of supplication. "I didn't mean for it to come out that way. I knew he wasn't familiar with ancient history, and I said so, just… in fewer words."

She slapped him again. "That is such a Hal thing to say. Not everyone is illiterate you know, some people are aware that you are a mad bugger who takes days off because you're afraid of being stabbed in the back twenty-four times by your best mates."

He almost fell over in shock. Alex grinned and looked pleased with herself.

"I read Julius Caesar in school, I'm not dumb. Today's the Isles of March or whatever bullshit."

"Ides of March," he corrected, "And it's not bullshit. The soothsayer clearly warned him –"

"Oh, shut up, Hal!" she dropped her chin to her palm and stared at him. "You're not the leader of a nation, there is no mad old man shouting bollocks at you (at least, not anymore), and I'm pretty sure everyone who wants to kill you is already dead."

"Until you put that dishcloth away, I'm not convinced," he joked.

X

It was a Monday and Tom was at work and Allison was at school and he was walking downstairs when he heard it.

A sort of sizzling noise and a sharp intake of breath. "Fuck."

Then a squeaking noise and a rush of water.

The sounds came from within the kitchen and, curious, he went to look through the window.

Alex was holding her hand under the spray of the tap, wincing and rubbing her lips together the way she did when she was trying not to cry. She swore some more under her breath, and turned off the water and dried off her hand. She turned to the cook-top and regarded it with what seemed to be a rather high level of distrust.

He watched as her gaze flicked from her hand – red and chapped-looking – back to the cook-top.

A moment later he burst into the room and wrenched Alex away from the burner.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he was vaguely surprised at how furious he sounded and realized he was shaking angrily.

She tried to adopt a politely confused expression except he could see the tear tracks on her face and she was shaking, too and her hand was red and blistering.

"I – don't know what you mean." Her lips trembled and failed to form a smile. "I was just about to make some tea –"

"Don't lie to me!" his fingers curled round her arms and he shook her. "I saw what you were doing."

Her eyes betrayed her; fresh tears welled up in them and dropped to her cheeks and she would not look to him. Her tears splashed over her hand and she gasped, in spite of herself.

He forgot about his anger when he took in the state of her. Her palm was raw and shiny and blood swam to the surface. "Fucking hell, Alex," he muttered. "What have you done?"

A sob escaped her lips, unbidden. "Really Hal, I don't know – I was just making tea, honestly, I was, and then by mistake I put my hand on the cook-top and it was hot and –"

"Shh, come on, let's get you cleaned up."

"Hal – really – I didn't do it on purpose –" he ran the water and thrust her palm to the sink. She whimpered again and he tried his best not to feel any sympathy.

(It didn't work.)

"I saw what you did," he said quietly, turning away and crossing his arms, "you put your hand back there, and you knew it was hot but you still did it."

She was biting through her lip in an effort not to cry out in pain. "I know – I can explain –"

"I don't think I really want to know."

"Look – you know when you're a ghost you're incorporeal, and – and nothing feels right, 'cause you're not real and everything else is. Except you feel like you're real and everything isn't. And I had to go without feel for so long, and now I'm alive again, and I'm just like everything now, like, I'm real and everything else is real and – I just – I missed having sensation and –"

She fell against the counter and slid down, collapsing heavily on the floor. Her wet hand was dripping all over her shirt and she was crying like she couldn't breathe, and her eyes were closed and it must have been one of the saddest things he'd ever seen.

"Bloody hell, Alex."

So he threw himself down beside her and she kind of caved into him, fisted her hands in his shirt –

(he didn't mind the wetness)

– and knocked their heads together.

"I'm sorry."

"So am I." he sighed and clenched his fists and then smoothed them out again, and ran his fingers through her hair. "Jesus, Alex, I didn't know you felt that way."

"What way?"

"I don't know. Lost. I don't know."

"I'm glad you're here," she said, and sniffed. "I'm afraid of being without you."

"Yeah?" she nodded and curled herself closer. "Me, too."

They were silent for a time. Then, "I really am okay, you know. I'm not crazy. I think. I just wasn't thinking."

"I know."

"I'm not into self-harm or anything. I never did that shit. It didn't even feel good. It just fucking hurt."

"At least you'll know never to do it again."

"Want to have sex before Tom gets home?"

"Let's."

XI

Once they were watching some infomercial at eleven at night and he was thinking about going back upstairs until Alex stirred beside him.

"Where'd Tom go?" her voice was thick with sleep. He rubbed his thumb against the fabric of her sleeve.

"He's gone up to bed. Early day tomorrow."

She bit her lip like she was hiding a smile. "Good."

Then she leaned over and caught his bottom lip between her teeth.

(She'd found out that this made him growl and grasp her hips tighter.)

He reached over and pulled her atop his lap, smoothing his palm up her thigh and threading his fingers through the belt loops of her jeans. Her hands went to his face as she traced his jaw, his chin, and sank her fingers into his hair. She opened her mouth to him and they twined together and somehow he ended up pressing her into the couch and making his way down her neck.

She had his shirt unbuttoned and was pushing it off his shoulders when he paused.

"What was that for?"

"I wanted to, so I did."

"Ah."

And he went back to her mouth and learned her as deeply as possible.

XII

Sometimes he would still feel it. Like the vestiges of tea in the bottom of the mug that you can never quite swallow, he was never truly able to rid himself of the instincts he'd acquired over the centuries. That last day, so long ago, had marked the re-birth of his psyche and the death of the monster with whom he'd become so familiar. That last day had marked the beginning of a new life, a life free of hiding and free of nightmares and free of the judgments and deaths that plagued him wherever he went.

But he could still feel it. Deep down, buried underneath levels of consciousness. He'd never held much stock in psychology; when it had become a fashionable profession, he had scoffed and ignored the field entirely.

Of course, that might have had something to do with the fact that he had already been changed at the time – and had been for a long while. The corruption of his madness had already begun to eat away at his mind, and fill his head with urges and aggressiveness and destruction and pure impulse.

He was familiar with Freud's work; he understood that the aspect of his personality he was still trying to bury was inaccessible and unforgiving and would never part from him.

And even as he was human, the vampire id, deep down, buried underneath levels of consciousness, thrived and schemed and would not let him forget the things he'd done.

Sometimes, at night, when she was sleeping, he would trace the curve of her throat with his eyes and, for a split second, imagine the sensation of tearing into it, opening the carotid artery and feasting on her trachea.

But then he would close his eyes and hate himself a little more and resign himself to the other side of the bed.

(She would always find her way to him in the night;

He woke every day with her arms round him and her legs tangled in his.)

XIII

He liked when he and Tom walked together after dinner. They did that sometimes; walked. It was simple.

He rather liked simple.

"I'm thinking of proposing to Allison," Tom said one evening. They had meandered into town and were passing the ice cream shop Alex always liked visiting when they were nearby (and even sometimes when they weren't.) They had been discussing the last episode of Antiques Roadshow, and how Tom had figuratively kicked his ass, and in the middle of a sentence, Tom mentioned his plans in a way that was quintessentially Tom: randomly, unexpectedly, and totally straight-faced.

"What? Tom! How wonderful." He clapped Tom on the back because it seemed like the appropriate thing to do.

Tom's grin outshone the streetlights.

"I think it's been long enough she's lived with us," Tom continued, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the ground. "Right? And she's done with school – at least, this semester. Plenty of time."

"Tom," he began carefully, "have you already – er – plucked your flower?"

"Yep!" Tom smiled more widely. "McNair said I should only pluck my precious flower if I found the one, and I know Allison's the one 'cause there's never been no one else."

"Do you think she'll say yes?"

"Sure hope so," Tom murmured, gazing wistfully across the road.

He seemed to be looking at a shop advertising infants' clothing.

He steered Tom away from the shop. "Not quite yet, Tom, not quite yet."

XIV

It was a Wednesday afternoon and Alex had just come in from work. He stepped over to greet her, but she pushed past, anxiously searching the front room.

"Has Allison gone yet? Has it happened?"

"No, she's in the kitchen." Alex yelped and almost ran over. He followed at a more sedate pace, hanging her coat up from where she'd dropped it in her haste.

"Aah!" her voice drifted over from the kitchen. "Look at you, pregnant lady!" Allison's laughter met his ears and he knew if Tom had been there his laugh would have been the loudest of them all. "How are you feeling? Any liquids draining from your person for no apparent reason?"

"Alex, that's disgusting," he chided, pushing past the swinging doors. She looked over her shoulder to him and practically bounced over, giving him a warm kiss. His hand lingered on her waist as she stepped away.

"Sorry I didn't say hi," she said, going back to feeling Allison's tummy, "I just really wanted to see this bump. It gets cooler everyday Allison, I swear." Allison gave her an indulgent look and met his exasperated gaze over Alex's head.

"Any day now," she said cheerfully. "Sooner rather than later, I hope." She checked her watch and he noticed her anxiety.

"He should be home soon," Alex told her, "but the weather's absolute balls today." She paused. "Can I say that in front of the fetus?"

Later on, Tom returned home safely and made pasta for dinner and drank wine with everyone except for Allison, who, despite being pregnant, had never much cared for wine anyway, and Alex, who had always preferred beer.

"Charades!" Allison exclaimed.

"Excuse you," said Tom, who was clearing the dishes. Alex snorted.

"Charades is a game, dummy," she said. Tom looked blankly at her, then at Allison.

"Never heard of it."

"You're telling me you've never played Charades before? Ever?"

"Tom, even I have played Charades, and I've lived for more than half a millennium. Shame on you."

Their evening was subsequently spent teaching Tom to play Charades.

Allison was up in front of them, and it was clear to him that she had picked up 'Leon Trotsky' (he knew this because it had been his prompt). Tom was staring blankly at her impression of him being beaten by an ice axe. Alex was laughing at Allison and had slid her arm through his and was nestled to his side.

"Jesus, Allison," she gasped, "I have absolutely no shitting clue. I give up!"

And suddenly, incongruously, he imagined how she would look with his child in her belly.

He was so staggered by the warmth that arose in him at the thought that he had to excuse himself. In the privacy of the upstairs bath, he leaned heavily on the counter, breathing heavily and counting to ten over and over. His fingers twitched and he wished he had his domino with him. He wished he hadn't cleaned the bath that morning, because now it was too tidy to clean again.

"Hal?" a knock on the door and a voice. Her voice. Shit.

He tried to level his voice. "Yes?"

"Are you okay? You kind of like ran out of the room. I mean, Tom's cooking has really got better, I thought he was doing really well." He would have laughed except for the ache in the pit of his stomach.

"I'm fine, go back to Tom and Allison," he said shortly, in a tone that brooked no argument.

She had always been unpredictable, though. Unpredictable, stubborn, wonderful…

The door opened – shit, he hadn't thought to lock it – and she came in, swinging herself up onto the counter beside him. She ran an appraising glance from his toes to his head, and raised her eyebrows.

"What's up?"

He threw his hands into the air. "I said, nothing!" she tapped her feet impatiently against the cupboards.

"Like hell. I know you better than that, Hal." She grinned, pleased with herself. "So? What's wrong? Are you suddenly imagining Allison naked and wondering how to tell Tom?"

He must have looked stricken because she whooped a laugh and said, "I'm only taking the piss. Now, tell me what's wrong or I'll actually say that to Tom."

He smiled slightly in spite of himself. "It's – stupid. I can't tell you."

She pouted. He wanted to kiss her until she smiled again. "Why ever not? Is it a guy thing? Are you experiencing certain difficulties?" she winked.

He rolled his eyes. "No, Alex, I think you'll find that I am fully functional and exemplary in every aspect."

Her gaze grew bold and she hopped lightly off the counter, stepping close to him. She slid her hand into his trousers and he closed his eyes.

"I might need some clarifying on that point," she whispered, and he was sure he'd distracted her (and himself) enough until, suddenly:

"Do you ever think about having children?"

Fucking hell.

She withdrew and stared at him.

He had never been able to divine her thoughts; her mind was an impregnable fortress.

He'd just fucked everything up, hadn't he?

"Um," she licked her lips slowly, gaze shifting between his eyes, "do you?"

"Yes," he whispered, and she must have found the honesty in that one word because she gasped slightly. "I do."

She gave the briefest of smiles before kissing him soundly, and he wondered if she was the one doing the distracting, or if she was telling him something.

They didn't stop so he tentatively guessed it was the latter.

(He would never tell her that, just in case.)

XV

Alex was standing in Tom's room staring at the collage of newspaper clippings and photographs he'd accumulated over the fireplace. He knocked on the door and she jumped.

"Jesus Christ!"

"No, just me." He came to stand beside her, mirroring her earlier stance. "What are you looking at?"

"He really wants a family," she said, quietly. He glanced at her. She looked troubled.

"It would seem so," he replied, examining the collection more carefully. "The photos certainly emulate that theme."

She turned to face him. "Do you think we are one?"

"One what?" he was slightly perplexed.

"A family!" she said impatiently. "He's never really had one, has he? Are we – enough?"

He took his time to answer.

Finally, he turned to her, and ran his fingers up and down her arm soothingly. "I think he's very happy now. I think this is exactly what he wants." She looked so hopeful that he felt a pang of affection for her. "What did you think? He wouldn't be here if he wasn't satisfied."

"Where else would he go? He doesn't have anyone or anywhere else."

"Well, maybe that's what family means."

XVI

The days he liked best were the lazy days,

The days when he didn't have work and Tom didn't have work, either.

The days when they would watch movies like Zouzou (and he'd say "I danced in that scene, behind Josephine Baker. Too bad it wasn't caught on film." And Alex would say, "Oh, yes, of course, since you're so good at everything else, you must be a dancer, too." And Tom would say, "Who's Josephine Baker?") and sit around in their pyjamas all day long and drink too much tea.

The days when he would wake before Alex did and he'd have the opportunity to memorize her features without her sticking her tongue at him and looking away, embarrassed by his staring.

The days when Alex was out and he was pining for her and Tom would suggest a game of chess, even though he knew that he was bollocks at it.

But most of all, the days he liked best were the days when he forgot everything except for them, and the mantelshelf that was growing dusty with disuse, and even the paper wolf because it reminded him of the sacrifices and the deaths and the loves and the futures but also the pasts.

**Author's Note:**

> A great big thank-you to those of you who are taking the time to read this!


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